


boys will gladly go to war for you

by girlguidejones



Series: state of readiness [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Bottom Derek, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Rebuilt Hale House, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Dad, Smart Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlguidejones/pseuds/girlguidejones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is out of town and Stiles must lead the pack in the face of danger for the first time.  But when Derek returns, it's the aftermath—not the skirmish itself—that hands Stiles and Derek their biggest challenge: figuring out where Stiles fits now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	boys will gladly go to war for you

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest thanks to [poisontaster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster) for her always invaluable advice and comma wrangling. Any remaining shortcomings are mine alone, and probably because I didn't listen to her.

One minute they're tangled up in a big pile in the middle of the living room floor, watching The Walking Dead in black-and-white, and the next it's nothing but fur and fangs.

"Guys? What the fuck?" Stiles is the only non-wolf in residence at the moment.

"Intruders," Isaac spits out, and he does, spit that is, eyes gold with fury and jaws snapping. Stiles leaps to his feet, mumbling incantations, heading for the trunk at the end of the sofa.

"How many?" he snaps, loading his own wolfsbane-blend shells into his shotgun. "How far?"

"Four," Erica growls, and Boyd nods in agreement. "About to cross the eastern fence-line, coming fast."

They have a fence now. Not white picket, although Stiles thinks Derek would totally have gone for it if anyone else had shown the least inkling towards the fairy-tale look. Cedar shakes hem in the entire thirty-acre plot, blending in with the edges of the preserve's stony hills that butt up against the forest itself.

No one has to tell the pack to keep the clearance zones stark and firebreaks neat. With Hale-luck, it'd be just like Mother Nature to bitch-slap Derek with another fire. Derek doesn't know it, but Stiles has as much spell-work tied up in fire-suppression as he does in security.

"Stiles?" Boyd prompts. "You want us to circle them, come from behind?"

"Or advance and cut them off?" Erica adds, but Stiles is shaking his head.

"We can take them. And I'd rather not give away our advance warning system if we don't have to." Even Stiles can feel it now, what the wolves felt several minutes before: the telltale tingle that the border touch-stones put out when their fields are breached by anyone non-pack.

"So, we let them through? All the way to the house?" Isaac asks, clearly not fond of the idea.

"Got it in one, buddy." Stiles nods, shooting him a wink with more confidence than he feels. 

"Robin? On my right." Stiles jerks his chin at Erica, who snaps to just behind him with satisfying speed.

The four stranger-wolves make it onto the big front porch only because they let them; three men that all appear to be seasoned—older than Derek, for sure—and the fourth a kid their own age, probably along for some fucked-up wolf-pack version of a work-study program. Stiles nods grimly to the betas who are fanned out behind him. The intruders are here for a reason; better to find out on their own terms, in friendly territory they can defend.

"What do you want?" Stiles challenges. He makes his voice firm, but not loud enough to show he's spooked.

"Money. Fame. Peace in the Middle East," their leader sneers, but he's a beta, not an alpha, and Stiles is unimpressed. "But maybe we'll settle for a nice little getaway in small-town NorCal."

"Yeah?" Stiles replies, "Funny. With the over-the-top entrance and cheesy dialogue, I had you pegged more for Hollywood types."

It goes back and forth a few more times, but they don't have much to say. There's lot of bluster about a new pack in town, and how they're looking for prime territory ripe for the taking, but it's low on details and the more Stiles asks the more they sneer and mock. He's done with this shit.

"Well, to quote another famous Californian: 'Bored now'," Stiles says, positive they aren't cool enough to get the reference, jerking his chin at Erica. She slaps a knothole in the cedar siding and leaps backward, blonde curls following a split-second behind her actual body, escaping the falling nets that imprison their guests. They hiss and whine as they pull at the webbing, claws useless.

"Don't bother," Stiles says. "Wolfsbane infused, woven with mountain ash bark. You're not going anywhere unless I let you."

"You?" The biggest one mocks, in between sucking at the smoking skin of his burnt fingertips. "You're actually _in charge_ of these flea-bags? We heard the Hale Alpha had a human for his second, his piece of human ass. He really is as weak as they say."

"If you say so," Stiles shrugs, smiling as he steps forward with his gun, racking a shell into place. He knows what this particular smile of his looks like, can see it in their faces as their sneers falter and they scrabble frantically at the netting. "But then again, I'm the piece of ass you need to worry about right now."

Stiles levels the shotgun and slowly and deliberately double-kneecaps each one of them, re-chambering new wolfsbane rounds while stepping to the next whimpering wolf. Even his own pack cringes and howls, hands over their ears as each deafening boom shatters another wolf's leg. They retreat behind him, crowded together surreally on the welcome mat to avoid the small clouds of wolfsbane dust. 

These shells were hand-made for just such an occasion—when he doesn't want to kill so much as send a warning message about the kind of suffering you'll get if you fuck with Beacon Hills. He's laced the wolfsbane in each non-lethal shell with Derek's saliva and blood; the effect is the same as being gravely wounded by the Alpha himself. It'll take weeks for them to heal. 

Long, agonizing weeks.

Stiles leaves the smallest one of the four—the kid, who looks at him with wide eyes, all of his bravado melted away—with one working knee and tosses him a magic-spelled knife, shotgun still trained on him. When Boyd and Isaac move forward, Stiles waves them off. There's a lot of wolfsbane in the air; he doesn't want them anywhere near it.

"Cut yourself and your buddies—one at a time—loose, and drag them down off the porch and into the bed of that old truck. We'll dump you outside our territory." The kid does as he's told, whimpering as his fingers blister again and again as he saws at the ropes.

Isaac stays behind with Stiles while Erica and Boyd—who's actually riding shotgun _with_ a shotgun—start the truck. Isaac supplies them both with thick, elbow-length construction gloves and disposable paper face masks, and Stiles throws the ruined netting over the intruders piled in the bed, just for good measure.

"Just think," he drawls over their howls as the nets burn them all over again, "if this is what happens when you deal with the human Hale second, imagine how fucking terrifying my Alpha must be." He smiles again, thin and mean, with all of his dull human teeth.

The wounded wolves say nothing, licking wounds and heaving nauseously, whimpering and black-bleeding fucking _everywhere_.

"I don't know what your sorry-ass excuse for an Alpha is up to, but tell him the next little delegation he sends into Hale territory will come back _bisected_."

_______

The betas are reclining sullenly in the lawn furniture in the side yard, the closest Stiles will let them come. They're unwilling to leave him alone but prevented from doing what their instincts tell them to at the moment, which is to crowd in and tangle up with _pack_ in the wake of danger.

Right now he's their alpha-by-proxy, and they want to press close, to touch and scent him. He feels the pull of their need inside himself, the pack-bond tugging at him; ironically, it's stronger than it's ever been now that he can't let them close, covered in wolfsbane as he is. Watching the three of them is a study in character: Erica mournful and longing, Boyd staring at him, obediently stoic and intense, and Isaac, taking it as a personal rejection. It's not the first time Stiles post-humously hates Isaac's dad.

It should be flattering, Stiles knows, but they're cranky at the separation and he's cranky at the massive clean-up job he has to do alone and somehow despite an overwhelming victory no one's happy.

It wasn't exactly how he pictured (okay, yes, fantasized) his first stint in the captain's chair going.

Just as they start stacking wood in the fire pit Derek gets home. He'd called at some point, Stiles suspects; his phone jigs imperiously in his pocket with unanswered messages that wolfsbane fingers keep him from retrieving. He'd heard Isaac on his earlier but couldn't make out the conversation.

Derek pulls the Camaro all the way to the house and leaps out before the motor has stopped ticking. He glances at his clearly-healthy-but-cranky betas but doesn't stop his direct course for the porch, vaulting all the steps at once to get at Stiles.

" _Stop_ , Derek, you can't—" but Derek ignores him, scooping him up and crushing him to his chest. Stiles can hear the betas cooing teasingly.

"Stiles." He dips his head against Stiles' neck, mouth open and lips brushing as he scents frantically along Stiles' skin. Stiles shoves him away with all of his strength, which probably only works because Derek is already feeling the effects of the wolfsbane he's hoovered from Stiles' neck.

"Get off me, you fucking idiot, can't you smell that?"

Derek just stares at him as if Stiles is the stupid one.

"Are you alright?" He's reaching out again and Stiles leaps backward to stay out of his grasp.

"You're going to be puking black goo all night as it is, now stop it," he snaps. "I can give you my report if you will just get back—"

"I don't need a report, Stiles. I just want to know you're okay, is all."

It stings. And, rationally, Stiles knows Derek didn't mean for it to, but it does. It's the first time he's actually led the pack in an attack situation and he thinks he did a pretty fucking kick-ass job and Derek doesn't even want to hear about it.

"You don't want my report?" he asks, and his voice sounds hurt and trembly even to him. He straightens, and swallows. "Fine. But I need you out so I can get this cleaned up."

"Yeah, Derek, let Cinderella work her cleaning magic," Isaac cat-calls from the yard. 

"I think I'm smart enough to stay out of the way," Derek answers Stiles, ignoring the swipe from Isaac.

"Don't fucking push me, Derek. You've already proven you're not. I'm done, okay? Get out and let me work."

Derek growls at him, but he does as Stiles asks (orders, really) and hops effortlessly over the rail to sit with the betas. Stiles watches Boyd move partially off the big chaise, just enough to let Derek in and then they're all crowding him, instinct bending them close to their Alpha in the wake of danger. Erica circles to the back door, bringing back yogurt to settle Derek's stomach, and Boyd hands him Kleenex when he starts gagging and sneezing out the wolfsbane he'd inhaled from Stiles.

Stiles listens to the pack laughing as they roast hot dogs around the fire pit while he works, occasionally pausing as Derek coughs and spits, but he's not in enough danger to justify Stiles stopping. He hoses down and disinfects and hoses down again, finishing by wiping down all contact surfaces like door handles and the glider and the porch rail a third time. He knows the laughter isn't aimed at him, even if he can't hear the words, because while the wolves are sly and sharp-witted, none of them are cruel.

Cruelty is what Stiles is for.

It doesn't stop him from feeling left out and _apart_ while they take what is, by right, Stiles' place, and tell Derek about the intruders. From what he can tell, high as they are on their unqualified victory, there's a lot of embellishment and glory-mongering. But the facts are there and Stiles doesn't bother to interrupt or participate.

It's full-on dark and the wolves have scattered when he returns from the dumpster, naked and cold, eyes burning from his own bleach-bath and subsequent hosing. He doesn't own any clothing with enough meaning for him to go through the complicated decontamination that would let him keep wearing it around the wolves. There's a paper-plated peace offering left for him—a couple of ketchup-doused hot dogs burned the way he likes them, along with a pair of congealed, cooling s'mores.

His stomach is queasy, not with wolfsbane or even the residual adrenaline dump of his own violence, but with the simple disappointment that comes from realizing that the title of second-in-command apparently means less to Derek than it does to Stiles.

He leaves the food for the crows.

_______

He uses the giant basement shower for the first time ever, just to get warm, really; he's already clean. It makes Stiles ache a little, thinking of Derek, since it's there solely because of Derek's input, drawing on his memories of growing up in the pack. It's meant for weres to use when they come back from wolfy fun-time runs covered in mud and leaves. They can enter from the outside through a separate entrance, straight into the basement to get cleaned up without tracking through the house.

Even though he's grumbled about it since day one, tonight he's glad that the laundry is downstairs, too. The ever-present pile of clean clothes that doesn't always make it into their closets lets him get dressed without having to go upstairs where the rest of the pack is. 

He can hear the bass rumble of the surround-sound; they're in the loft's media room. If Stiles knows them at all—and he does—that's where they'll be in the morning, curled up around each other on the giant leather sectionals, unwilling to separate after the attack. He's grateful for the two stories between them and the noise of the movie when he picks up his phone.

"Heeeeyyyyyy Dad..."

"Stiles? What's wrong?"

"Why does something have to be wrong? Can't I just call the world's best father to say hi?"

"Derek was due to get home today after being gone for four days, and if you're calling me instead of—"

" _Dude_. Really. You do not want to go there."

"Truer words, son," he chuckles. "Truer words. So what's up?"

"You feel like company tonight? Maybe have breakfast later?"

There's a long pause. It's sort of a watershed moment for them: the first time since Stiles officially moved in with Derek that he won't have spent the night there. Or spent the night with him on a stakeout. Or running for their lives through the preserve. But, still. Aside from Derek's trip, they've spent every night together, is the point.

"Sure thing, kid," his dad says blandly. "You at the house?"

"Yeah," he breathes, relieved that his dad doesn't probe further. He just knows he can't handle seeing Derek right now, not yet, and he can't sleep beside him (or, lie awake beside him, let's be real, here) all night with this hanging between them. He needs some room to think.

"Okay. Be there in twenty."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Hey, son?"

"Yeah Dad?"

"At least leave a note. Take it from your old man; just disappearing is the wrong way to go. Trust me on this one."

Stiles flushes guiltily, even though there's no one there to see. He was totally planning to just slip out, and it's a little embarrassing that his dad knows him well enough to know he can be that petty.

"Yeah, okay."

"Good man. See you in a bit."

Stiles creeps upstairs to the kitchen and scribbles a quick message on the fridge's dry erase board, where no one ever remembers to note that they ate the last of the salsa. He knows someone is bound to see it—snack replenishment is a given on movie nights.

Since he's there, he grabs a cheese stick and an orange to tide him over, stuffing them into his backpack along with some reading material to keep him busy in case his dad ends up doing actual cop stuff.

Stiles realizes his mistake a moment later—he's lingered too long, or been too careless with the noise he makes. He feels Derek before he hears him, the electric skitter of his Alpha heating his skin a moment before Derek's icy voice chills the air between them.

"There's a chain of command, you know. You haven't even reported to me yet, and you're going to _sneak_ out of our _house_? What the fuck are you doing?"

He turns to face Derek, feels his shoulders drawing up and in defensively. Stiles should have known he couldn't creep out of a werewolf's house undetected. He'd been hoping, vaguely, that the wolfsbane would have dulled Derek's senses. Derek's hair is mussed, and he's already in his sleep pants; he'd clearly been waiting for Stiles to come up to bed.

"You weren't so interested in it before. When did you want me to make my report, Derek?" he says bitterly. "In bed? With your cock in my mouth?"

"What the fuck does that mean?" Derek snaps.

"You didn't ask for information, or our status. You just picked me up and cradled me like a doll in front of everyone. You didn't ask one fucking word about what happened."

"I found out the details from the betas. After you were done ordering us around," Derek sneers.

"You should have gotten it from _me_. First. As soon as you got here."

"Well I guess you'll have to forgive me for making sure everyone was okay first."

"You knew we were okay before you ever set foot in this house. There wasn't a drop of our blood spilled, and you knew it miles before you got here. Don't feed me that shit, Derek. I'm not as incompetent as you apparently think I am."

"That wasn't the kind of okay—" 

"Whatever, asshole." Stiles interrupts, snatching up his backpack and stalking to the door.

"So you just leave because things aren't going your way? Because you don't like how your Alpha does things?" 

Derek is trying to sound snide but Stiles can hear the wobble in his voice, and he can't walk out letting Derek believe he's leaving for real. This is exactly what Derek's been waiting for ever since Stiles and he had gotten together—for Stiles to realize that it's all a mistake, and make his escape. He doesn't want Derek to think that's what this is.

"Dad's picking me up. He's on nights; I'm gonna ride along until he gets off in the morning, have breakfast with him. He'll bring me back."

"So you can talk about me? Complain to your dad?" 

Derek's always had this weird thing with his Dad. Stiles doesn't know if it's something to do with the father Derek doesn't have anymore and he's not qualified to figure it out, frankly. But he's not surprised that Derek's tweaked about it, and he wishes he'd thought it out and kept his mouth shut.

"You talk about respect, and wanting to be treated with authority, but you're not very good at it yourself," Derek grits out. "We're under attack, and you didn't ask my permission to leave."

"Derek, believe me when I say this: the most respectful thing I can do right now is put some space between us for a while. If I stay here tonight it's going to be worse, and the pack will hear every word. Is that what you want?"

Derek's lips thin into a grim line and he waves a dismissive hand at Stiles, gesturing him out.

"Just go. You'll do what you want anyway, like always."

Stiles stares, dumbfounded. There's so many things he denies himself, every day, to make the pack work. To find out that it looks like something different to Derek just floors him.

"Wow. Okay." He pauses, but nothing more forms in his head. He's completely blank.

"Stiles—" 

He thinks Derek is going to try and walk it back, so they're not parting on acrimony, but you know what? Fuck him. If he thinks Stiles is selfish, so be it. Stiles will cling to his righteous fury and Derek can hang. 

Stiles looks Derek in the eye, acknowledging that yes, he's spoken to him, and then turns his back—slowly, deliberately—on his Alpha and walks out.

_______

The pancakes are heavy in his belly as they turn onto the county highway leading to the Hale place, coffee and orange juice having an acid-war in Stiles' stomach. His dad had taken full advantage of Stiles' gratitude, loading up on real bacon and authentic maple syrup while Stiles gave him the stink eye but wisely held his tongue.

It's not morning yet, but getting there, the black of night transitioning to a dark, inky blue. When they take the left at the bottom of the long drive, Stiles reminds his dad for the fifth time to wave at Derek if he's out.

"Dad, seriously. The guy won't sleep for a week if he thinks you think bad things about him."

"What about my parental rights to be mad on your behalf?"

"You didn't Mirandize me when you picked me up. You can't use any of this," Stiles replies smugly.

"That only counts against _you_ , Stiles."

"C'mon man. You _know_ Derek has some kind of weird need for your paternal approval."

"You're right," his dad says dryly. "That's something I've never really experienced before. I shouldn't encourage it."

Stiles snorts, patting his dad on the shoulder with a grin. "Thanks Dad," he says, "for listening."

"That's my job," his dad says. "Just make sure you do the same."

Stiles gets a minute to think about that as dispatch comes over the air, asking the sheriff to confirm whether he'll be willing to judge the pie contest at the school carnival again this year. They need an answer today. His dad cuts a look at Stiles before hurriedly agreeing, then Stiles snatches the mic from his hand.

"Hey Margie, over?" Stiles breaks in, thumbing the connection.

"Stiles, honey, that you? How you doin', sweetie?"

"I'm great, but I just wanted to check…isn't there, like, some kind of a new diabetic/sugar-free/gluten-free/low-cal category this year? Over." Stiles says, louder at the end to drown out his dad's groan of protest.

"Why yes, yes there is. Over."

"Great. That's the one he's judging, Margie. You can find someone else for the rest, can't you? Over." There's a half-minute of static during which Stiles is pretty sure Margie is stifling laughter. He very deliberately does _not_ look over at his dad's face.

"Ten-four, Stiles. We'll take care of it. You pinch that pretty boyfriend's butt for me, you hear? Over." Stiles snorts.

"Heard, dispatch. Will do. County-One out."

"Dispatch out."

"That's a cruel thing to do to a man that comes to get you in the middle of the night," his dad grouses as Stiles snugs the mic onto its clip.

"We all have to compromise sometime, Dad," Stiles replies smugly.

"What about you?" his dad asks, directing a quiet look over at Stiles. "And Derek? Any compromising happening there?"

"It sounds suspiciously like you want me to kiss and make up," Stiles says, watching as a rabbit dashes into the underbrush at the side of the road when the car nears.

"No, no. That's not what I'm saying at all. I'm remembering everything you told me about last night. There was a lot about what happened, and what you did, and how you think Derek treated you. But there wasn't much about what Derek said, or how _he_ was feeling."

"You're saying I didn't give him a chance to talk."

"Maybe you did and just forgot to tell me about it," his dad says, side-eyeing him.

"Oh, okay mister smarty-sheriff, I got you," Stiles rolls his eyes. "Maybe I didn't."

"I'm just thinking about all the fights I had with your mom," he says with a quiet smile, staring at the next curve in the road, as if it might bear a little more to the left and she'll be there, waiting. It breaks Stiles' heart, to think how much they'd both give to have another fight with her.

"Even the ones where she was still obviously wrong—" his dad pauses and drops a quick wink at Stiles, who grins back, shaking his head "—she'd always say _something_ that made me think about things a little bit differently than I did before, once I gave her the chance."

"Even if she was still wrong," Stiles says, making it a statement instead of a question.

"Especially then," his dad nods firmly. Stiles is quiet for a while.

"What?"

"What, what?" Stiles parrots.

"You know what."

"Just thinking."

"Okay," his dad says, clearly willing to let it drop as they make the last bend of the mile-long, switchback driveway. Which means Stiles can't, of course.

"I was wondering how you got so good at the thing, where you stick up for Derek but you make sure I always know you're still in my corner," he asks. "Like, will I learn how to do it for my own kids? Did you read it in a book? Is it hereditary?"

They pull to a stop in the gravel turn-around and his dad smiles and lifts a friendly hand to Derek, who's sitting in the big rattan glider. Stiles gapes at his dad as Derek hesitantly waves back, clearly a little taken aback but looking hopeful.

"What?"

"I thought you didn't want to let him off easy!" Stiles sputters, irrationally offended that his Dad actually granted his request.

"That was before you started talking about having kids. Figured I might as well embrace the inevitable."

"Whoa, just hold—I mean, _wow_ , Dad."

His dad ruffles his hair and chuckles, before reaching down and pointedly pressing the release on Stiles' seatbelt.

"Go make up with Derek and get some sleep." 

Stiles lunges across the center console and hugs his dad, hard, muttering thanks into his shoulder, before yanking on the door handle.

"And Stiles—" His dad stops him with a hand on his wrist, but his eyes are on Derek, whom he knows very well can hear every word now that the car door is open, even over the incessant dispatch chatter and the engine.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Make him work for it." He winks. Stiles can _feel_ Derek flushing without even turning around as the cruiser pulls away. 

The sun is just starting to come up. Derek's got two steaming mugs waiting; no doubt he heard the particular cadence of his dad's cruiser when it got within a few miles of the house. Stiles reaches out, opens his senses, but the house feels empty aside from the two of them; Derek probably sent the pack on a pre-dawn run to get them out. Stiles can only imagine the crankiness he'll endure when the wolves get back. He absently plans a big, hot breakfast to sweeten them up as he drops his bag on the steps.

"Hey," Derek says as Stiles takes his place on the glider and picks up his mug. "Catch any perps?"

Stiles snorts. It's always funny when Derek tries to use police lingo in that dry, flat voice of his—something to do with how Derek himself still looks like a prime candidate for the back of his dad's cruiser.

"Nope. Got a call for a possible peeping tom but it was just old Mr. Brinkman, trying to get in the wrong house."

"Drunk again?"

"Dad pretended not to notice." Stiles nods. "The dude's, like, ninety. He'd probably keel over trying to wash off the fingerprint ink."

Derek laughs softly as Stiles sips from his mug and coughs a little in surprise. Derek reaches out, as if to pat him on the back but drops his hand before he can.

"Did I get it too sweet?" He looks contrite. 

Stiles swallows his last cough, shaking his head. "No, no, it's good. It just caught me by surprise. I was expecting coffee."

"Oh." Derek's face falls. "I can get you some? Just figured you already would've had it with your dad at breakfast and wouldn't want more." 

And he's right. Stiles didn't want more coffee at all, not even decaf. He'd only picked it up because it was a peace offering and he didn't want to snub it.

"No, you're right, definitely no more coffee. Tea is nice. Perfect, really." 

Derek smiles hesitantly, nodding. 

Neither of them say anything for several minutes as they watch the sunrise, purple and blue giving way to scarlet. The creak of the glider fills the gap, but Stiles can't stand it anymore. He's tired, adrenaline and the maple-syrup-sugar high long gone and he doesn't want to go to bed without…without _something_ , dammit.

"Stiles, I'm sor—" Derek starts to say, but Stiles interrupts.

"Ask me for my report," he says. And he doesn't even know where that came from, really. He hadn't been consciously thinking about it. Derek's as surprised as he is, apparently.

"What?"

"Ask me for my report, Alpha," he says, setting down his mug, and Derek does.

"Stiles, I'd like your report on last night's events now."

He gives it standing up; it feels too cozy and casual to sit beside his Alpha for this, as if it were just a chat. Stiles recounts the battle (which wasn't one, really), including how he felt like the intruders were either deliberately sent on their way thin on information or reluctant to give it for some reason. 

"I felt like continuing to ask them for it would just make me and the pack look weak. After a certain point it seemed the better course of action to put the fear of God in them and send them home bloody," he finishes.

"Why didn't you let the wolves at them, instead of using magic nets and guns?" Derek asks quietly. 

Stiles looks at him long and thoughtfully before answering, but it doesn't sound like a complaint or a criticism. It sounds like an Alpha just looking for all the information. Which is sort of a problem, because there's some things Stiles doesn't really want to get into, but lying isn't an option either.

"I felt like they were goading us, that they wanted a fight." He shrugs. "Which we would have won, but why give them what they wanted, if we didn't have to?" Derek nods in agreement and Stiles continues. "And besides, they went back to their pack with the news that the human—the theoretically weakest member of the pack—took out four wolves practically on his own with no help from the betas. They'll think long and hard before they attack any of us again, including Allison and Lydia."

"I see," Derek says noncommittally, which makes Stiles edgy. It's not the same as "good job" or even a critique. This is bad.

"Was there any other reason?" 

Stiles' head snaps up and he narrows his eyes. He can feel his own pulse kicking up. No point in more evasion now.

"They told you," he says flatly, and Derek nods.

"Yeah."

"Little fuckers," Stiles huffs.

"They weren't trying to jump over you, Stiles," Derek says softly. "It wasn't disrespect. They're worried about you."

Stiles thinks about it, how it must have looked from the outside, the bloody and deliberate maiming he'd doled out, his cold fury at the insults the intruders had spat at him, and especially about Derek, his own determination to never be seen as a weakness that invites attack on the people he loves.

"I am too," Derek says, and Stiles feels his mouth open and close without saying anything. "I felt it, before I talked to Isaac, before I got to the house, it was—it was all violent _rage_ and I knew you were all okay...physically. I knew it but I—it—" He draws a breath, trying to compose himself. "You were so angry, and when Isaac told me what you'd done—"

Stiles has no idea what to say, so he retreats into formality again.

"I did what I thought was best, Alpha, to keep the pack safe, today and in the future." 

Derek's eyes are steady on Stiles for a long moment before he nods. "Report accepted. Thank you," he finishes.

"Are we done?" Stiles means formally, not completely, but Derek gets it. He nods again and leans back, one arm stretching along the back of the swing in silent invitation. Stiles sits down, but doesn't lean back into it.

"I'm proud of you, you know," Derek says quietly. 

Stiles cuts his glance to the side but doesn't say anything. It's a hard lesson he's learned, that sometimes he can get more words from Derek if he doesn't respond than if he does. It's tough to ignore his natural instinct to just _keep talking_ , not to mention counterintuitive to the conversational rules that govern most people.

But Derek Hale isn't most people.

"I wouldn't have thought it out that much," Derek admits, because Stiles gives him the space to do it. "I wouldn't even have let them get that close to the house. And wouldn't have realized the value of showing the human's strength and withholding the wolves'.

"I would have sent them home bloody, too, but they'd be thinking about revenge, they'd know Boyd is left-handed, and how quickly Erica pivots, and that Isaac drops his right shoulder when he charges. Instead they're taking weeks to heal, spending the time telling ghost stories about super-humans and magic and secret death-traps covering the Preserve."

Stiles' head snaps up and he flushes guiltily.

"Yeah, Boyd and Erica told me about the script you gave them for the deportation ride." Derek's eyes crinkle for the first time.

Stiles nods but doesn't reply. The air is still thick with things waiting to be said.

"There's one thing you should know about me, though," Derek says, in that mild-but-not way he has when he reminds the pack they're skating a too close to forgetting he's the Alpha. "I'm smart enough to realize this; that I suck at chess and financial planning and the long con. Smart enough to put someone smarter than _me_ in place to make up for it.

"You shouldn't forget that, Stiles," he says quietly. The silence stretches out between them; they both sip at their tea and Stiles watches Derek's bare toes clench into the porch floorboards to set the glider in motion.

"Do you know how much it would have meant to me if you could have just _said_ that in front of them?" Stiles asks at last. It's not whining, even if it sounds like it. It's not. 

Okay, it's maybe a little bit whiny. 

Derek looks up, surprised, turning in his seat to face Stiles with eyebrows arching in question. The glider creaks in protest, the forward-backward momentum thrown off by the redistribution of Derek's weight. He toes the floor again to set it to rights, as if he knows they need an underlying rhythm as a backdrop to make it through this conversation—a soothing accompaniment, like putting a ticking clock into the blankets with a new puppy.

"If you could have just approved of my decisions while they were there to hear it, instead of picking me up like a doll, like I was a delicate and breakable princess?"

"I—I don't think—" Derek lets out a long breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "They followed your orders, without hesitation from what I hear. Even against their own instincts to fight. They'll fight for you again, if it ever comes to it. They don't doubt your leadership, Stiles."

"You sure about that?" he responds softly. "You saw Isaac sass me, afterwards." He pauses. "And did nothing, I might add."

"You were being a dick," Derek says and, the fucker, he even makes it sound reasonable.

"I'm a dick every other day, Derek. But he mouthed off to me because you blew me off, made me look like I didn't have any authority anymore, once you were back. Everything was _covered_ in wolfsbane—including me—and you didn't care, you just ignored it...and trumped me."

"Okay. Okay, but..." Derek reaches out, lays his hands on Stiles' wrists, thumbing them softly. "You need to—" Derek breathes out heavily, and starts again. " _I_ need _you_ to know, that when I said I was worried that you might not be okay, that—"

"I get it. It was because I went a little Pulp Fiction for a while, there," Stiles finishes for him and Derek nods. "But you still can't act like I'm Sleeping Beauty, waiting for her prince to come and rescue her."

"It wasn't because I thought you were weak, I promise." Derek leans in. "If anything, it was just the opposite. The power, the fury I felt..."

"Then I need you to make sure it looks like that in front of them, okay? Not just for me, Derek. It's the best thing for the pack, too," he says. And then: "I'm not as selfish as you think I am."

Derek's head snaps up, forehead furrowed. "I don't think you're selfish!" he protests. "The opposite, if anything. I wish you'd think about yourself more often." 

"That's not what you said last night," Stiles shoots back.

"I said no such thing," Derek snarls, hot like he always gets when charged with something unjust, which is Stiles' first clue that maybe his interpretation was faulty.

"You said I always do what I want anyway," he offers, but it sounds like a question instead of a rebuttal.

"And? You _do_. Always charging in and not thinking of yourself first, or even at least explaining to someone else what the hell is going on in your head." Derek huffs. 

Stiles flushes. He'd definitely assigned the wrong meaning to what Derek had said. But it still could have been avoided, if only... "If you'd have asked me for my report like you should have, you would have _known_ what was in my head," he says, grudgingly realizing that he bears some of the blame for their blow-up.

"I get it. I do. And I'm sorry," Derek says quietly, dark brows pinched in worry, his shoulders lowering from their defensive posture and tilting into Stiles' space.

"And I'm sorry for sneaking out. It was stupid and immature. On a boyfriend level and a pack respect level," Stiles admits, lips against Derek's throat. "I should have just told you I needed some space."

Suddenly they're twining into each other, inseparable. Derek kisses like it's the last one he'll ever get, desperate like always after they fight, and Stiles feels himself responding.

_All_ of himself.

And _then_ he feels Derek smiling against his mouth.

"Stop smirking." 

"Not smirking."

"Are too." Stiles' teeth worry at the point of Derek's jawbone where it always makes Derek shudder. Just to put him in his place, is all. He feels Derek tremble and then hears him growl softly, the interrogative kind.

Asking.

"Fuck yeah," Stiles breathes, arms wrapping around Derek's neck just as he's lifted up. 

Derek takes the steps to their bedroom two at a time, one arm wrapped around Stiles' waist while the other hand slips down the back of Stiles' track pants. Stiles' options are limited, but he tongue-fucks Derek's mouth in lieu of other alternatives. Derek drops Stiles to the bed and immediately begins shedding his shirt while Stiles works on Derek's fly. 

"Can't help but notice you don't mind being a princess when it gets you in bed faster," Derek snarks. It's times like this when Stiles wishes he had the power to resist him, because Derek deserves blue balls for some of the shit he says, but Stiles is a mere mortal, after all, and Derek Hale is naked on the bed next to him.

"Maybe I wouldn't mind so much, being your Disney princess sometimes. But I don't wanna be Cinderella, waiting for you to bring me a glass slipper," he says. 

Derek's looking at him with those soft eyes he gets, when Stiles is being adorable and Derek has absolutely zero resistance to it.

"Goddammit, Derek, I wanna be motherfucking _Mulan_ , okay?"

Derek laughs, head thrown back against the green sheets that Stiles secretly picked out just because they make Derek's eyes look incredible. He looks at Stiles a couple times, opening his mouth to respond but then just laughs again. Finally he reaches behind him and digs into the bedside drawer before turning back and tossing Stiles the lube.

"Okay Mulan." He grins. "Go ahead. _Be a man_ ," he says, and rolls to his belly.

"Oh Jesusfucking _Christ_ ," Stiles breathes, staring at Derek's ass. "You can't just _do_ this, Derek."

"Obviously I can," Derek drawls, looking back over his shoulder and slowly, deliberately rolling his hips. Because he's a prick that way. "The question is, can _you_?" he challenges.

"Oh. Oh, _I_ see," Stiles shoots back, indignant. "It is _on_ , motherfucker." Stiles grips Derek's legs and yanks him off his knees where he's been balanced. Derek pancakes flat onto his belly with a groan. It probably crushed some delicate equipment, but it was his own fault for smarting off. Werewolf healing—it'll only hurt for a minute.

"Asshole," Derek complains.

"Why, yes, don't mind if I do, now that you mention it," Stiles replies. He quickly sheds his own clothing then reaches for the lube and opens the snap-cap. He knows Derek will hear and smell it, but it's only a decoy. He's got something else in mind. Derek groans his approval when Stiles pushes his knees apart, frog-legging him until he's spread wide, but when Stiles breaches him it's not slippery fingers pushing inside.

"Fuck, _fuck_ Stiles," Derek gasps, and suddenly Stiles has a faceful of Derek, who's helplessly working himself back onto Stiles' tongue.

Stiles hums, a question sound of his own, but doesn't stop what he's doing, just kneads Derek's ass as he flattens his tongue against his hole again and again and flicks at it, wet, wide smacks, spanking against Derek's hole as if knocking for entry. Derek keens and curses.

"Shit. _Shit_ , Stiles, oh god," he babbles.

"Not the best choice of words when someone has their tongue up your butt, babe," Stiles teases him, flicking him again and pushing in, deep as he can go, to show Derek he's not really worried. 

Derek groans, deep and guttural, when Stiles finally breaches him. "Little bitch. How 'm I supposed to think about vocabulary when you're tongue-fucking me like that?" 

Stiles laughs, the vibrations making Derek groan again. He gives another deep push in and out, before licking down and soaking the skin behind Derek's balls.

"Pretty sure I'm not the bitch in this scenario, buddy." Stiles grins, nipping Derek's ass as he presses into him with one long middle finger, all the way down to the last knuckle in one steady push. Derek groans first, then whines, and then he's gasping as Stiles wiggles it, curving until he brushes Derek's prostate. As soon as Derek jerks in tell-tale response, Stiles is relentless, rubbing it again and again, pausing only to pull out and add his ring finger and more lube.

"Jesus, Stiles, stop already." 

Stiles pauses, hesitating, but Derek's rolling his hips obscenely in front of him, pushing back against Stiles' hand, legs still spread and wide of their own volition.

"You want me to stop, just say the word," he says casually, not wanting to break the vibe they've got going but watching carefully. Derek, though, never stops moving, blatantly humping the mattress beneath him in counterpoint to the backward pushes onto the now three-fingered fuck he's getting from Stiles.

"I just don't wanna come in the sheets before you get your dick in me," Derek complains, clearly in no distress aside from potential ego damage. Knowing he got Derek that close, that fast, is nearly as hot as actually touching him. Stiles' heart ribbits in his chest with a sudden spike of need.

"Maybe I don't care when you come, huh? Ever think of that?" Stiles hisses, before dropping to a whisper and rubbing his hand over Derek's ass. "Maybe I'd like it, using up your tight little hole for as long as I want after your dick is already spent and soft and fat in my hand?"

If you'd asked Stiles, back in the day before sex with somebody else became a joyously regular part of his life, he'd have said dirty talk wasn't his thing. He's watched some porn, okay? Lots of porn, and usually about the time the dudes start talking dirty is when he's scrambling for the mute button before the cringe-worthiness ruins the fun.

Even now, it doesn't do much for Stiles personally, which is just as well, because Derek sucks at verbal smut. For a guy that will shift out of a fur coat and into human nakedness in front of a room full of people without even the hint of a blush, Derek's sort of a prude when it comes to naughty words. But it's exactly that—that prudishness—that apparently sends Derek to some really, _really_ dirty place in his head that sets him off like a goddamn firecracker. 

Like now.

"Oh...f-f-fuck, _Stiles!_

Stiles figures the least he can do is give Derek a reach around, but all he manages is to slip his hand between Derek and the mattress before Derek slams his hips down, pinning Stiles' hand and just _rutting_ into his palm. 

Stiles redoubles his efforts to hit Derek's prostate but it's damn near impossible the way Derek's shuddering and writhing beneath him. Trying to ground him, Stiles bites, teeth sinking into the blade of Derek's left shoulder. He tastes coppery salt, the realization both hot and terrifying. A moment later he _feels_ another kind of salt, as Derek moans and comes wet and hot into Stiles' hand.

The sound Derek makes— _Christ_ —the sound of him has Stiles _flying_ , this tremulous, completely abject cry coming from high in Derek's throat, thin and reedy and lost-sounding. Stiles slips his fingers out of Derek and watches him come apart, back arching and undulating as he comes for forever before slowing. 

Stiles slips his other hand from beneath Derek and grabs himself with it, the smell of Derek's release sharp and bright in the air.

"God, Derek. You...you're so...fuck—" Come makes a crappy lube, gets too sticky too fast but Stiles is staring at the ragged, sluggishly bloody imprint of his teeth in Derek's skin. Derek's helpless cry is on an endless replay loop in his brain and he's pretty sure that it's not going to take that long.

"No," Derek says, reaching back to bat Stiles' hand away from stripping his own cock. 

"Fuck you," Stiles laughs unsteadily, not stopping. "I can't wait 'til you're ready again."

But Derek is shaking his head against the sheets, hair soaked with sweat and plastered to his forehead when he looks back over his shoulder and up at Stiles.

"Do it," Derek whispers. "I want it." He pauses again, hesitant, eyes casting back down. Stiles almost misses it when Derek speaks again, even more softly. 

"The thing you said."

It's not like this is completely new territory; Stiles pitches and Derek catches and never the other way around, although Derek will finger him for what feels like hours and rim him to within an inch of his life. 

Stiles would complain, but— _orgasms—_ so it would be petty. Besides, he made a promise and it's progress at least, considering where they started. Even if Derek still won't top, won't knot him and risk Stiles making the wrong forever-choice.

But even with Stiles in the driver's seat, this isn't what they do, usually. Derek is gruff and demanding when he's getting fucked, just like he is the rest of the time, just like he started out being tonight. He isn't... _this_.

"You...you sure, man?" Stiles asks quietly, squeezing the base of his cock as his other hand rubs softly against the knobs of Derek's spine. "We don't have to. I'm not even kidding here; I could finish up in about twenty seconds just from looking at you."

Derek doesn't turn around, but raises up to his knees again and arches his back in the clearest of invites. Stiles hears his answer, muffled by the mattress.

"I want it," he repeats.

Stiles can't take time to analyze it right now, he can't or he'll come before he can even press inside. He reaches for the lube but Derek's fingers are there again, tugging him.

" 'm ready. Ready, Stiles just do it," he grits out. Stiles has to agree that he probably is, because he'd opened Derek up so mercilessly already, but he squeezes some lube on his cock anyway. 

They groan in tandem as Stiles sinks deep, down to the root in one long thrust before he sets a rhythm. He has to squeeze his eyes shut or else the sight of Derek, stretched around him, would make him come embarrassingly fast. They don't open until he feels Derek's fingers prying one of his hands away from where they're digging into his hips. At first he thinks he's hurting him, but then Derek tugs him forward, pulling his hand in front and between Derek's legs.

Oh.

"Oh. Oh, fuck, man..."

"You said," Derek says, and it's almost accusatory, like Stiles is breaking a promise or something. "You _said_."

"I got you. I got you." Stiles finds Derek's cock, hanging heavily, spent and soft, just like Stiles had said it would be. 

He's always obsessed with Derek's cock after he comes, often tonguing at it while it gets soft and inexplicably fatter than it is when he's hard. Derek only ever puts up with it for so long before he shoves Stiles' face away with a grunt.

He's not shoving him away now, shivering as Stiles encloses his cock with gentle fingers, cradling and rolling it across his palm as he dicks hard and deep into Derek's ass. 

Derek rubs his face back and forth on the sheets beneath him, making noises like the ones he made when he got off, and Stiles feels a low-grade tremor skate its way across Derek's shoulders and down the backs of his thighs.

Stiles is close; his thrusts become erratic and the force of them moves Derek up the bed, sheets coming untucked from the drag. He leans forward into the next push, resting his mouth against his bite-mark again, muttering at Derek. 

"This it? Huh?" Stiles grinds himself against Derek's ass when he speaks, but Derek doesn't—can't—answer, too busy moaning and gasping. "This what you need? Me using you?" 

He pulls out completely, intending to hammer deep one more time, and is shocked when Derek howls—literally, wolf-howls—in protest, curving his back and raising his ass in blatant invitation.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Shhhh. I got you."

Stiles is still bent awkwardly over Derek's back, Derek's cock heavy in his hand, when he lines himself up again. He drives deep, burying himself each time, and it only takes a few, steady thrusts before he's coming.

Derek makes a pleased sound and pushes, quick and hard, back into Stiles. It throws Stiles off-balance and his hand slips from Derek's sweat-slick spine, up his back, until it meets the bottom of Derek's skull.

The pressure shoves Derek's face into the mattress and the soft, fat cock in Stiles' other hand stiffens and jerks powerfully, all at once, covering Stiles' fingers in Derek's spunk for the second time. Stiles knows that Derek is crying out again, can feel him trembling, coming apart beneath him, but he can't hear it over the white noise of his own orgasm.

He milks himself in Derek's ass until he's too soft to keep going and slips out. It's what he'd dirty-whisper-promised, what Derek said he wanted. 

When Stiles lifts his hand from Derek's neck, Derek whines, curling up on his side and shivering. Stiles immediately tucks himself behind him and gathers Derek in. 

They're gonna have to talk about this, but Stiles knows Derek Hale well enough to know it's not going to be tonight. Or tomorrow. Probably not even next week. Stiles will attempt to bring it up a few times, in several different, casual ways, all of which Derek will pointedly avoid acknowledging. Then one day out of the blue Derek will blurt out something in the middle of unloading the dishwasher or sorting their socks and Stiles will flounder before righting himself. 

For now, he just focuses on grounding Derek, nosing behind his ear and snugging an arm around his chest, tucking his knees behind Derek's and tangling their ankles.

He's hoping he's right about what Derek needed from him, because he's just shoved his Alpha face-down into a mattress and fucked him raw.

_______

"How come it's not healing?" Stiles asks after a while.

Now that Derek is present, mentally, Stiles' evil twin is making itself known, mouthing greedily at the impressions his teeth left in the flesh over Derek's scapula. Derek lets him. He hasn't said a word this whole time, but he has made lots of non-verbal noises that Stiles knows from experience mean good things. He's now boneless in Stiles' arms, the tense, fetal apostrophe relaxing slowly while Stiles mutters nonsensical love things into Derek's skin.

"I—it's a wolf thing." Derek's voice is crackly and dry, as if unused for hours, though Stiles can see the sun through the bedroom window sheers is still a post-dawn orangey-red, not quite yet the bright yellow of actual day. He reaches for yesterday's glass of water on the nightstand and makes Derek drink it down, saving only a swallow for himself.

"You're gonna have to do better than that, big guy," Stiles complains. He tucks himself close again. He should probably have them change positions, make sure Derek doesn't cramp, but he's not ready to stop staring at his mark, just inches away from the triskele's arms.

Derek sighs, but, really, that's to be expected.

"The ability to heal comes from wolf-magic," Derek begins. "It's the wolf's domain. Normally it's automatic, but an Alpha wolf—and sometimes a few very experienced betas—can control the speed or temporarily stop it."

"Why would you do that?" As badly as he's enthralled by his mark on Derek's skin, learning more about wolves is like Stilinski catnip. He will always turn in that direction when the information crooks its finger at him.

"Sometimes it's useful, mostly in battle. You can use it to let your opponent think you're more injured than you really are." Stiles nods, knowing Derek will feel it against his nape. Makes sense. "Or if you're with someone in your pack, and the resources are limited, and healing too fast would use those up, maybe leave your pack-mate without food or water." 

Of course there's a self-sacrificing reason as well. It's _Derek_ , after all. The man hasn't met a set of train-tracks he won't lie across. Stiles has to acknowledge the truth of it, though. He's seen healing wolves too many times, ravenous and thirsty, driven to consume anything in sight as their metabolisms race to repair the damage to their bodies. One of the first things Stiles did after officially moving in was sign Derek up at Costco, because the amount of money they were dropping at the local Safeway was _appalling_.

"I get it now. But...neither of them apply here. Soooo....what gives?" 

He licks his bite, tasting Derek's blood again as it seeps thickly from the wound. It's a dickish move, because he knows Derek is susceptible to him right now, but he also knows there's something Derek's holding back. Stiles wants it and is enough of a bastard to play dirty in order to get it.

"Sometimes," Derek says, exhaling shakily, and pauses. Stiles rubs his face against the triskele, scenting it the way he knows calms Derek. He lays soft kisses from the bite, across the black swirls, and finally connecting an invisible tether to the other shoulder blade.

"Sometimes an Alpha can...will...sometimes the wolf will make it so its mate can mark it," Derek says softly, turning in Stiles' arms so they're facing each other. "Permanently," he finishes on a whisper, looking carefully at Stiles, who...cannot think of a single fucking thing to say.

He gapes. Seriously, he can feel his mouth hanging open, fish-like, without the capacity to close.

"I—I don't know what..." he struggles, Derek looking at him very gravely. "You're going to wear my mark?" he finally says, weakly. Derek's face crumples a little.

"If—if you don't want it, I can...I can try and make the wolf—"

"WHAT?" Stiles squawks. "Don't you fucking _dare_!"

"Oh. OH. I thought maybe you—"

"Shut up, oh god shut _up_ ," Stiles growls, and kisses him. He slips an arm beneath Derek's shoulders and gropes Derek's back until he finds the mark and squeezes it meanly. Derek breaks the kiss and hisses, inhaling sharply, but presses his face into Stiles' neck, nuzzling.

"You'll have to keep doing that," he murmurs.

"Whazzat?" Stiles has lost the plot a little, tangling his legs with Derek's and tipping his head back to let Derek at his neck and jaw.

"Messing with it, while it tries to heal. So the wolf will keep remembering it's yours, put there with intent, and let it scar."

"If I'd known," Stiles laments as Derek mouths at the knob below his ear, "I'd have done something different, made it prettier or put it somewhere more appropriate." He drags his fingers through Derek's hair. "I'm sorry to put something kinda ugly next to the triskele. It feels...disrespectful."

He feels Derek still himself against him, then suddenly Derek is right _there_ , sharing air, so close he's just one big green eye staring down at Stiles.

"Stiles...you've bitten me a hundred times. In all kinds of places. Several in the last week. This one...in this time, in this place...it's the one that called the wolf to it."

Stiles is trembling, feels Derek press himself down against Stiles deliberately, paper-weighting him to the bed while he feels like flying away.

"You don't get to be sorry about that," Derek finishes gently, butterfly-kissing him on the tip of his nose.

"Okay," Stiles whispers. "But—" He can feel Derek taking one of his patience-striving deep breaths.

"But...?" Derek prompts, pulling back enough that Stiles can see Derek's lip-corner quirk up in fond exasperation. It's one of his favorite looks on Derek, something Stiles is always secretly proud to put there.

"It means something, right? You—you're taking my mark. A mate—a claiming symbol." 

"It means something," Derek says solemnly. "It's—we're—"

"Closer?"

Derek nods.

"Okay."

"It's...I'm not ready—"

"I'm not asking," Stiles says hurriedly. He'd made a promise.

"Okay."

"Good."

"Yeah," Derek sighs, reclining fully on his side. He lays a cheek on the soft, pale inside of his arm—one of the few soft places on him, really—and stares at Stiles, who tucks himself closer into Derek's space.

"Someday."

"Someday." Derek nods.

"Someday my prince will come...around. And get his head out of _his_ ass, and put his—-" Derek stifles the next word with a kiss "—in _my_ ass," Stiles finishes on a gasp when Derek lets up. You can't kiss a Stilinski silent, no sir.

"You did not just pun our relationship with Disney lyrics."

"I'm a man of many talents," Stiles says smugly.

"You're corrupt."

"That's just one of them. Now kiss me again."

Derek does, very thoroughly and sweetly, Stiles muttering endearments each time he gets breath to do it with. Derek pulls back after a moment, sighing and staring down at Stiles.

"What?" Stiles demands. "You're sighing. What's that look?" Derek merely shakes his head. "We're kissing. You don't get to look at me with _disappointment_ when you're kissing me!"

"You never went to sleep."

"So?"

"You've been through two adrenaline dumps in the last thirty-six hours and haven't slept, but you haven't shut up for the last twenty minutes. I was hoping if I kissed the warrior princess it would work in reverse."

"Why you little—" 

Derek seems unconcerned by Stiles' pending insult. It's just as well, because the other half of it sputters away as the sun slips through the curtains and lights Derek's ridiculous torso, shaking with laughter as he leans in to steal another kiss, which he _totally_ does not deserve right now. Derek curls up around Stiles, tucking him close, pleased with himself in that particular way he has that should be really annoying and is somehow adorable instead.

Fucker.

"Dishonor on you. Dishonor on your cow..." Stiles slurs the words, already falling asleep. Maybe Derek is onto something. Derek mumbles back, his smile curving against Stiles' neck.

"I'll make a note of it."

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story of someone who—on the surface—appears to be the weakest soldier, yet despite that ends up leading the the troops to victory and earning the respect of the entire army—and the Emperor. Er, I mean, _Alpha_. It draws inspiration from legend of Mulan. [Here](http://dettoldisney.wordpress.com/2011/11/18/mulan-vs-the-legend-of-hua-mulan/) you can find an interesting comparison between the actual Chinese legend of Hua Mulan and the Disney production that many of us may be more familiar with. Spoiler: Disney comes out better than you might expect.
> 
> Mulan is my forever favorite, the first Disney princess to win the heart of her prince not because she's pretty or needs him to rescue her, but because she kicks ass and saves everybody herself- including the prince. Obviously it's Stiles' favorite, too; he's indoctrinated Derek, and now it sees heavy rotation in the pack's movie queue.
> 
> The [title](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnUEDaeoF0Q), [Derek's bedroom teasing](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1_FpjUGUcI), and [closing lines of the story](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppobDZeSJ9Q) are referenced directly from the Disney production itself. Sadly, I own none of it.


End file.
